Thought.
‘That this great work of art was built in just over ten months, including the period of its design, demonstrates the power of the people led by Mao Zedong Thought; it shows how the revolution is advancing by leaps and bounds, at an unstoppable speed.
‘The Great Hall of the People, a melody in space, symbolises the greatness of the Party, the greatness of the ancestral homeland, the greatness of Mao Zedong Thought, which turns matter into spirit and spirit into matter.’
Back in the car, Old Chen asked me where we wanted to go. It was lunchtime, so I suggested we go somewhere to eat. I remembered there was a restaurant in Nanchizi where I had eaten dim sum on one of my visits to the Ministry of Public Security, so I said, let’s go there.
It was not full. Along the sides were Shanghai-style compartments. We found one that seated four, and I ordered the food. Sitting there reminded me of the Cantonese restaurants in Guilin and Chongqing. Braised pork in red beancurd gravy had been Old Nie’s and Old Yu’s favourites, so I ordered braised pork in red beancurd gravy, beef with oyster sauce, flowering cabbage in white sauce, fish in tomato sauce, and soup with meat balls. F was not to know I made my choice on the basis of my memories of those years and that I was trying to make him forget his present situation, so he could eat and drink as in the past, amid the merry shouts of his friends. He tucked in happily.
Later, Old Chen said, ‘I thought you would want to go to Senlong’s instead.’
‘It gets too full. And we might have bumped into someone we knew. After all, he’s not supposed to talk with people.’
Chen gave an awkward smile. He decided we would pay two more visits.
First we went to the Revolutionary History Museum. A female guide showed us round. We listened and looked, as events we had personally lived through were re-enacted on the pictures and photographs and in the guide’s narration. F paid close attention and asked questions. More and more people gathered in our wake, surrounding F and the guide and squeezing me to the back. At times, there were so many people that F and the guide became separated. The guide tried to push them aside, but she and F were re-surrounded in an instant. Most of the visitors were from outside Beijing. They chatted incessantly. Although it was midwinter, the hot air they gave off aggravated the atmosphere in the hall. When we saw the two doors of the peasant association preserved by the people of the revolutionary Soviet area, the guide pressed them and they opened. She led us in and the doors closed behind us.
Inside was a tiny guest room. F flopped down on the sofa. He was drenched in sweat. The guide poured us some tea, and we rested. In next to no time, we had witnessed the overthrow of imperialism, feudalism and bureaucratic capitalism, and the birth of new China.
When we left, the sun was sinking, but Tiananmen Square was still bathed in the diminishing light. We walked towards the Monument to the Heroes of the People. Hu Feng enjoyed the carvings, not so much intoxicated by the artwork as lost in thought at the revolutionary commitment of the people.
That was his first time in public in ten years, his first encounter with that rich and magnificent tableau. After returning home, he lay down. I boiled some congee and made some pasties, but he preferred a bowl of gruel. In the middle of the night, he started coughing. His temperature was more than 38.
The next morning, I told Old Chen. He said, ‘We must take him to hospital for a check-up.’
It turned out he had a slight fever. The doctor recommended sleep and lots of water, and discharged us. Old Chen had been planning to negotiate a hospital bed for F. Once outside, he rebuked me for making a fuss about nothing: there was no high temperature, and I had made it up. I said, ‘I didn’t say he had a high temperature, I said it was 38.’ I don’t know how he reported the matter to his superiors.
We decided to stay home for a few days. F stayed in his room, copying out the poems he had composed in gaol. The children were worried he would get tired, so they got him to play chess with them. At first, even the youngest almost beat him. Xiaoshan was afraid father would be embarrassed so he said it had been a draw, but F laughed and said his son played well. Xiaoshan was pleased. It was not until a few games later that he realised his father was an old hand at the game and could win if he chose to.
Comrade Huang arrived to see F on the third day. He asked a lot of questions about his health and said, ‘Tomorrow we’ll visit some factories.’
We were driven off into the remote outskirts. It was completely deserted – a vast expanse of yellow earth. There was no snow, just the occasional patch of frostwork on low-lying land. These scraps of white added to the bleakness. I was puzzled by the absence of buildings – where was the industry? The car drew to a halt in front of what looked like an honorific arch. A man jumped out of a parked car and said, ‘We’ll go ahead, you follow.’
After another stretch of yellow earth, crossed by a railway line, we arrived at an official entrance, consisting of two square columns made of red bricks and a sentry post, where PLA men were standing guard. Inside was a busy road lined by small shops.
The car parked outside an old-style building, probably the reception area. The comrades who received us told us the history of what turned out to be an iron and steel works. F listened attentively, and I made notes. They took us round an exhibition. There were lots of photos and articles of clothing and daily use demonstrating the cruel exploitation by the imperialists and the pillaging and slaughtering by the Japanese. There were bloodied clothes and instruments of torture, as well as a mass grave with piles of bones.
We toured the furnace and the rolling mill, where the fiery ingots were placed under the rollers to produce a bright red steel plate that got longer and longer, as if by magic.
We entered a small building in which there was a green rockery, a haven of tranquillity. The floor was waxed and thickly carpeted, and there were wall lamps and a chandelier. It had been a club for Soviet experts, with a dining room and even a dance floor. They must have had advance notice of our arrival, for there were dishes waiting. They looked, smelt and tasted wonderful.
We then drove off to the Qinghe Wool Mill. We saw all the stages, from carding to the finished product, including bolts of variously patterned fine wool, soft, densely textured material for overcoats, and wool of all colours.
The next day, we visited the No. 1 Machine Tool Plant. There was a pile of logs in the square, which I later learned marked the entrance to the air-raid shelter. The big factories were already building defence works in case of war. The comrade who took us round was a technician. He carefully explained the name of each lathe, its function, and the names of the things it produced. There was a contour lathe alongside a small model of it. The lathe could turn out enlarged versions of the model by copying the pattern. It was very advanced technology. Several big lathes had been put to one side. These were Soviet-made, but they required too much power and compared badly with our own products. I was overjoyed to learn of our progress.
In the afternoon, we visited Beijing’s No. 3 State Cotton Mill. At F’s request, we saw the nursery and the kindergarten. Inside the courtyard was a slide, a seesaw, and other playground equipment. It was cold, and the children were playing indoors. Some lay sleeping on the beds. The older children were inside watching slides. When they saw an animal, they laughed and shouted boisterously. They had chubby faces and reacted with curiosity to our presence. They weren’t shy, and some were quite talkative.
F was delighted, and I rejoiced at seeing him so happy. Spring Festival was almost upon us, and the whole family reunited in celebration. For ten years, we had been unable to gather.
Farewell Beijing, Farewell Dear Ones
We spent Spring Festival in a 24-hour hubbub. Director Wu and Comrade Huang came to wish F a happy Spring Festival. Then they got round to the purpose of the visit: we were to leave Beijing and make a new home in Chengdu in Sichuan. F’s face fell and any trace of a smile vanished from it. I was also